Ink & Dagger

I've always lived the life of a writer,

I never wanted to admit it.

It's another dream I've had never worth to mention.

Most of what I do is inconsistent,

One would be lucky to make a buck

From the angle of creativity 

Hours of work in minutes plus.

I've never held a president

Commissioned for words represented.

I've jotted lines, by the thousands this time

Not enough is seen to earn a ticket.

Could I speak on behalf of your soul?

Would I reflect enough of your heart?

My will to stain with letters

This ink could raise the bar.

Black liquid on rushing pages

An idea to turn the paper,

A lack of message or conjecture

As an artist I'm painting faces.

Faces, places, and things

Emotions that moat our being

If colors were on my pallet

They'd be grey, purple, black, and green.

In the forest of my mind

Hidden in evergreens

I've shelved away my hopes

Brushing the branches of misery

I've crossed out all my thoughts

To kill a memory

For when I grab the pen

Your ghost it starts the haunting.

Trying to forget

Burying faces under bridge

One of my wants

Becomes an everlasting wish

Is it easier worth granting

If I lapse back into this?

Could I die right now,

Leaving a legacy in just one sentence?

Leave a pen on the table

My words accumulated and piled.

Every verse taken, every stanza filed.

Hucked into the trash bin, I write for you again:

"Does it really matter?

Does it change who we're with?"